I must have been seven or eight years old when I first saw the film Labyrinth. Whenever I watch it now with my own kids on DVD it feels weird not having the warped sound and tracking lines over the opening credits. It’s a film which means a lot to me, not just for the nostalgia value which attracts so many people of my age to 80s cult movies, but because it’s the first time I remember my mind switching on to creativity. I was obsessed with the idea of the little blue worm, that he had a “Mrs.” and his own tiny life inside the Labyrinth walls. I would think to myself, that if I were Sarah, I’d just go and have a chat and a cup of tea with Mr. and Mrs. Worm rather than drag myself around the Labyrinth for thirteen hours. Whatever it was, it got me thinking. I wanted to read more books, like Alice in Wonderland, Chronicles of Narnia, and Chilly Billy (the little man who lives in the fridge), I started making up my own stories about the worm. I’d pretend he lived inside the Fisher Price activity centre which was stuck to the side of our bath until the water went cold. I’d make up plays with my Care Bears. I was creating this cosy little world to live in, it was a comfort. But when I got older, real life pushed the stories aside and I stopped playing, stopped imagining. Reading became a chore I associated with English Literature lessons and other things I didn’t understand well enough. So I kind of gave up. It was only when my sons were born that I found my love of books again. Reading to them, making up stories at bedtime, it reminded me that those things never go away. I started reading for myself again, trying to catch up on everything I’d missed and I’m still going now. The motivation to create returned, to make my own art, my own stories. Which brings me to here and my decision to share some of those stories. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed making them.
Claire O'Brien 